


the midlands

by bossymarmalade (maggie), maggie



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Alfie, Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21865204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/bossymarmalade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/maggie
Summary: May Carleton leaves Birmingham; Alfie Solomons stays. There's no need to let a perfectly good hotel reservation go to waste.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 5
Kudos: 79
Collections: Sholomons Prompt Fest 2019





	the midlands

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019) collection. 



> > **Prompt:** : _Alfie is an unapologetic bottom._
>> 
>> I have a fondness for Alfie bottoming (which is not on trend for this fandom lol) so whoever left this prompt, thank you for the excuse to write this. 

"As it so happens, Alfie," Tommy said. Just like that, an addendum, a drop into the still that his compatriot in the business could lift to his nose and inhale, or could let evaporate into the ether, as he showed Alfie Solomons out of his distillery after the tour, the critiques, the introductions. "As it so happens, I've a suite at The Midlands booked that's going to go to waste if nobody occupies it, tonight. You don't have to make the trip back to London right away, if you don't need to." 

Tommy took a long, dry pull from his cigarette, and Alfie watched as he looked up, away, at a starling whose little toe-claws were skittering along a ceiling pipe. "If you don't want to, that is."

And then Tommy held out his hand, and they pressed flesh, Alfie's middle finger still tingling slightly under his nail from the aid for incurable sadness he'd dipped it in.

Birmingham was still rank with swine flesh when they trundled back out to the car, and Alfie stood in the heavy, grey air for a few moments. The smell of juniper was still high up in his nose, dry, not sweet enough for some quarters and prospective interests, but it did, at least, cut through the trayf. 

That was something worth pondering on.

"Ishmael," Alfie said, finally starting towards the car properly and opening his door, bundling himself in and shutting it with a yank of his cane, "find out where the fuck in this dismal shit hole there is what the natives optimistically refer to as a hotel." Ishmael, accustomed by now to his boss giving orders that ran perpendicular, adjacent, or downright contrary to everything that had come before, merely nodded and collared a couple of Small Heathians who were passing as Alfie took the time to not settle himself in for a long ride back to Camden Town.

The Midlands.  _ You couldn't have asked for a more fitting name for this, Tommy my dove_, he thought, and lifted his anointed hand to his nose as the car lurched into motion.

\---

Tommy Shelby, it seemed, then had the ever-loving fucking effrontery to make Alfie wait -- yet  _ again _ \-- for his hallowed arrival.

"Right, I'm on the verge of taking whatever car you've got for yourself outside and driving me own way out of this facking pustule of a town, Tommy, so you'd best get out of my way." Alfie gestured with his cane, a couple inches away from thwacking Tommy's knee with it, his hands knotting and sprawling to express the full range of his annoyance with this day's being inconvenienced by one tightly-wound Peaky bastard. 

"I do apologize, Alfie," Tommy said, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he continued in the same vein of airy nonchalance that he'd cultivated at some point in his fledgling gangster career, Alfie surmised, to sound unflappable and unmoved and just a touch arrogant. It did have a certain charm, if you weren't currently aggravated out of your bloody mind. 

Although he couldn't sort out why Tommy also saw fit to unbutton his waistcoat and take off his glasses, placing them very carefully on the sideboard, until Tommy came over, close. Close enough for Alfie to pick out the scent of mint and ginger on his breath, the astringency of his skin. He'd shaved, recently. "There was a bit of last-minute business that delayed me, couldn't be avoided," Tommy continued. "I plan to make it up to you, though. The inconvenience."

Tommy put his thumb briefly against Alfie's throat, to the side of his adam's apple. And then he sank down to his knees.

"This is one hell of an apology, mate," Alfie began, instantly wary, his fingers re-wrapping themselves around the handle of his cane. Just in case. "Not saying it isn't warranted, given the bad manners of both yourself and your festering city--"

"I'd tell you to shut up," Tommy said, almost conversationally. He turned his head, and his nose and mouth and chin pressed against the front of Alfie's trousers, warm, insistent, interested. "But you wouldn't listen."

Tommy raised an unhurried look at Alfie, through the dark spikes of his eyelashes. "And I think hearing yourself talk is what gets you hard, anyways."

Alfie grunted. Half in surprise, half in agreement; and, fuck, it was the fucking Midlands, wasn't it? He'd not been entirely unaware of what this meeting in this for-some-reason unoccupied suite might involve. He was only a little rumbled because Tommy'd presumed that Alfie would wait for him, yet again.

But here he was, having waited. And here was Tommy, undoing Alfie's trousers and reaching inside for his cock, hands considerately warm for a change as he cupped Alfie's balls, rolling, fondling, and grasped his stiffening length to take stock. Finding that Alfie possibly would prefer some encouragement, Tommy took his paw back, licked the palm, and then replaced it, neat as a cat as he kneaded Alfie's sac and tugged at his cock.

"Keep talking, then," Tommy said. Alfie brought the hooked handle of his cane around to the back of Tommy's clipped head, pulling him in as he settled his feet into a wider stance. Obliging of him, that was, and Tommy must have agreed because he slipped both his hands in further past the unfolding material of Alfie's trousers. Helping himself to what he found there, thickening at his touch.

"The secret to great oratory, posy, is to never capitulate to the pressure for a command performance. No matter how enticing the compensation might seem at first glance--" Alfie's words gave way to a low sigh, breath heating up his tongue on the way past his parted lips as Tommy bobbed forward to take the head of Alfie's terribly eager prick into his mouth. Tommy's lips were wet, slicked up with his own spit as he sank right on down without a care as to keeping things tidy, none of the mannered propriety that Alfie occasionally found so ridiculous.

His cane skidded down, to the back of Tommy's neck, but Alfie left it there loose. Tommy was doing all the work already and needed no guidance or encouragement and Alfie rested his other hand on Tommy's face, the heel of his palm against that hollow, hollowing cheek, pressing in now and again to feel the bulbous push of his own cockhead. Onanism as translated through the mouth of Thomas Shelby, Alfie thought, but he let that one go as soon as it formed, nebulous and mocking and perhaps entirely too potent to be part of having his cock swallowed in a shit Birmingham hotel.

Tommy cupped Alfie's balls as he pulled back with wetness dripping in rivulets down the shaft of Alfie's cock, off the ruddied pink of Tommy's lips, saliva and precum both in a bubbling cocktail that brined the air with its scent. "Get me there, eh, Tom," Alfie murmured, "and it'll be apology accepted. Providing that you never again ask that I insult my preferred cobblers by setting shoe leather a step into your wank-stain of a city, yeah?"

Alfie grunted as Tommy -- in reply, he supposed -- pinched the soft skin of his sac, otherwise ignoring the barbs aimed at his family seat of operations, and instead dove the tip of his tongue into Alfie's slit. Poking in, fucking the sensitive orifice, and the handle of Alfie's cane rose to rub against the crease at the base of Tommy's skull as its wielder blinked at the ceiling and its shabby crown mouldings, feeling showers of sparks going off in the corners of his eyes. His cock pulsed, thumping for attention against the roof of Tommy's mouth when the warm wet heat of it thankfully returned en toto, and Tommy's hand slid further back, behind Alfie's balls, the calloused drag of a thumb-pad chasing the push of his middle fingertip. Sticky, and slippery, and when Tommy's finger forced its way into Alfie's hole his whole body jerked, galvanized.

His cane clattered to the floor and Alfie grabbed Tommy's head with both hands, rumpling his raven hair as he strained and bucked forward and came, hugely, incandescently, with a groan that ran circles through his chest before it hit the air and became fully-realized sound. Tommy stayed in tight, and Alfie -- fingers splayed all down Tommy's throat, all over his face, everywhere -- for a moment thought he might black out at the feel and sound of him swallowing all the seed Alfie had to give.

They stayed there for a few long yawning moments, Alfie's blood thumping in his ears, before Tommy moved back. Detaching himself and getting to his feet, drawing the back of one hand over his sloppy, used mouth. Alfie glanced down at his cane -- fuck it, he'd give himself the luxury of tucking back in and doing up his clothes first before he attempted to bend and retrieve it -- and said through a slightly heavy tongue, "Right, then. Make it sweet like that for the Americans, Tommy, and you'll have no trouble finding yourself a market."

He started to fold himself back together, material of his trousers hopelessly creased and possibly somewhat stained, but Alfie found his movements stopped by Tommy's hand on his wrist. "Hmmm?" he thrummed, thinking of the pistol under his coat, but Tommy didn't make any untoward movements.

Instead, he jutted his jaw to one side as he pinned Alfie with a level stare and said, clear and hard as a nail dropping on brick, "Oh, no, Alfie. Not yet. You're in Birmingham now, son, and that's not how we leave things."

And then Tommy was on him. Peeling back layers and layers of clothes, Alfie's coat, his jacket, his waistcoat and prayer shawl and shirt, discarding them all across the reproduction chaise longue that sat foolishly at the foot of the bed. "I'm gonna fuck you," Tommy breathed against Alfie's mouth, chasing him down with his nose and his shoulders and chest as he let go of Alfie to attend to his own clothes, stripping them off with far less care and letting them fall to the floor. "You think that might bring on some fucking oratory? Ay? Is that the kind of command performance you'll agree to?"

He hunched his shoulders forward, and Alfie was by no means a small man in terms of built-up muscle but Tommy was bulling ahead, compact and strong, a goddamn clay-kicker, wasn't he, and Alfie found himself -- body already drunk on the force of his climax -- unbalanced. He dropped back onto the bed with a slight bounce that met with Tommy's body coming down on his, and from there off came the shoes and trousers and shorts and it was the two of them naked, hard, against each other in The fucking Midlands.

Alfie shoved himself up higher on the mattress, at a curved diagonal, and watched as Tommy had the audacity to reach down into the pocket of his discarded jacket and bring out a vial of oil. Catching Alfie's incredulous look, Tommy tipped his chin to the side briefly with a smirk, lips twitching up at the corner. "Yeah, that's right, Alfie," he said, voice down to a husky tease, "that's how sure I was that you'd end up on your back for me. Everyone who comes to Birmingham does, one way or another."

"Hrrrmm." Alfie went up on his elbows, his cock still half-hard, sloped heavily against his thigh as he spread his legs, letting Tommy in between them with one knee on the mattress. "Is that generally before or after you get on your knees for them, then, love?"

Tommy gave a chuffing laugh, rust-clogged like he'd long since forgotten how that particular expression of emotion worked, and for a distinct moment the air of the hotel suite went still and they looked at each other, blue-grey and gin-blue, and Tommy might have taken that opportunity to close the distance between them and press his mouth against Alfie's.

The moment passed. The air moved again. Stirred by the wings of starlings and kestrels, of jackdaws.

Reaching past Alfie, Tommy clawed up the sheets and coverlet and bunched them roughly behind Alfie's back, down to his hips, and Alfie obligingly raised himself for the bolstering. His thighs parted more easily at that angle, Tommy reaching down between them to slide his oiled-up fingers between the heft of Alfie's arsecheeks, to the tight furl of his hole. Tighter than might be expected, from the flicker of Tommy's eyebrow as he pressed one fingertip in, then two, twisting. 

"Been, ah -- a while, right, since I was tended to in that particular fashion," Alfie said mildly, still up on his elbows because he'd be damned if he was going to miss the sight of this, Tommy Shelby pouring oil into the open palm of the hand that currently had two fingers wedged into Alfie's arse. "Circumstances being as they are, as in nobody generally has the fucking wherewithal to attempt to sodomize me." Alfie uncurled and re-curled his fingers, allowing, "--at least, not in the literal sense."

Tommy tilted his hand and the oil ran down the trough of his fingers, funnelling into Alfie's clutching hole, and he shoved his fingers in deep with a satisfied flicker in his eyes as Alfie's breath hitched. "I've been told," he said seriously, "that I have a tendency towards an over-abundance of ambition. Good or bad, Alfie, d'you think? Is that tendency?"

"Fuckin'  _ good _ , Tommy," Alfie growled, finally sinking back into the crumpled sheets as Tommy followed him, climbing up onto the bed and positioning himself where he could do the most damage. Alfie's gaze dotted over the line of his shoulders, the circle of his tattoo, the various thin lines and ranges of scars, but never alighted in one place too long. This wasn't the first time they'd clinched like this, groping at each other, learning each other's bodies; it was, though, the first time they'd been entirely undressed. Laid out available to see and be seen, to map, to catalogue, to discern the various key components and be dissected in turn. 

It was, Alfie found, entirely too much to be dealt with at the moment. Let it wait. 

He focused instead on the feel of Tommy's cock, the blunt sticky head of it rubbing along the tender skin between Alfie's legs, circling the over-sensitized thin slick of his hole, the tip of Tommy's thumb pushing in for a moment before he withdrew it and grasped himself anew. Guiding that fat tip to Alfie's hole and pushing, pressing, and then driving in with a lunge, a shout, a tremble that went through his entire body.

Alfie's mouth panted wetly open, his lips feeling swollen despite going unassaulted by kisses, and he rubbed the back of his head against the sheets to bruise out the smell of himself, treacly rum and oven-bricked bread and Portugal water, making it rise to wreath them both. "Fuck," he breathed, and "-- _ fuck _ ," Tommy echoed, fitting his hand under Alfie's arm and around his back as he got himself adjusted, other hand pushing Alfie's thigh open so he could get in closer, sink in deeper. Alfie's head was swimming, a peppermint-electric spiderwebbing of sensation through his groin and arse and belly as Tommy's thick cock drove in further and further without mercy, Tommy's breath rasping above him.

"Is it good," Tommy insisted again, then moved back, only a little, and shoved forward again to make a long, desperate groan clamber its way up through Alfie's chest and pour from his mouth. " _ Tell _ me how fucking good it is, Alfie. I want it. I want to  _ hear _ it."

"Then bloody well  _ fuck  _ me, Tommy!" Alfie roared, lifting his head as he reached out to splat his hands haphazardly against Tommy's side, his back, and damned if that wasn't exactly what his mule-stubborn cunt of a partner was waiting for because Tommy snarled back, leaving off holding Alfie's thighs apart to grab his hip and thrust forward, impaling him in one go and then sliding directly into a punishing pounding rhythm. The slap of their skin, oil and sweat, macerating the grunts and moans they punctuated the air with, Tommy's intense single-minded muttered  _ yeah yeah yes fuck yeah _ and Alfie's pouchy gusts of articulated encouragement on each in-thrust.

The sheets under him bunched tighter as they fucked, Tommy's arse rising and falling with his galloping pace and snorted breath, the whinny of his oncoming release, and as much as Alfie wanted it, his body clutching and clenching in remembered desire as Tommy's cock dragged into that sweet spot inside him, he knew he'd be laid up the next day, more likely than not. Thoughtful sheet-bundle under his hips or not. "Come on, then, Tommy, yeah, that's my boy," Alfie rumbled through gritted teeth, pushing up until he could grind his bearded chin against Tommy's shoulder, rub it against the freshly-shaved skin of his neck. "Give it to me, since you're in a giving mood, that's it, because we are who we are, hmmm?" Alfie wrapped his hand around the back of Tommy's neck, bearing down on the hammering thrusts that were beating him open, demanding, not to be denied. 

"We do all our killing at close range, don't we, Tommy, we do it  _ personal _ ."

Tommy grabbed Alfie tighter, colliding with him, bowling him over as he drilled Alfie into the mattress until his thrusts, increasingly erratic and impassioned, stopped short. He dropped his head forward and bit into Alfie's shoulder, blood tipping the ends of his teeth yellow-red when he removed them from torn flesh, throwing his head back in a short, anguished howl. And Alfie watched, committing it all to memory, jotting it all down in the box of his brain and the meat of his body, soaking up Tommy's spunk as it spurted deep inside him.

"Jesus," Tommy muttered when it seemed he could breathe normally again, and Alfie murmured, "--not the right Jew, darling, but I'll take it as a compliment."

Tommy made an explosive little sound that could have been a laugh, and eased out and rolled off, causing the bed to dip to one side before Tommy got to his feet. Turning his back on Alfie and reaching down to his coat again to get his cigarette case and lighter, as Alfie blinked up at the crown mouldings and felt cum trickling out of him and the little oil bottle bumping against his thigh, realizing that Tommy'd let all the oil they hadn't used spill and soak into the mattress. How many of his erstwhile paramours, Alfie wondered as Tommy's smoke started to make trails, did Mr. Shelby of Watery Lane rent this suite for? How many ruined bedclothes left in his wake?

Alfie rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes as he stretched experimentally; the ache in his lower back was making its long approach, yet, for which he was grateful as he pushed himself up on his elbow -- only to see Tommy fastening up his trousers, shouldering into his shirt. Everything about the way he was moving, the way he was holding himself -- finger-combing his blue-black hair into place, his stare retreating into that remote still sky-blue -- telegraphing what the next move was. The next move that this suite at The fucking Midlands had seen a dozen times over, a score of times.

And so Alfie let himself sink back down into the bed, gingerly bringing his legs up onto it properly and twitching the covers to lie in a damp twist over his hips, trailing down the backs of his thighs as he turned to face the window. "Yeah, go on then, get out of here," he said, waving Tommy off as if he were no more than a pestering maître d'. "I'm sorted and from what I hear, this suite's unoccupied and therefore mine for the night, and I'd like to get some rest before I make the long trip back to civilization in the morning."

The slight patter of Tommy's lips blowing out smoke sounded loud in the room. That was the only sound he made, save one: the gentle  _ tik _ of Alfie's cane, when Tommy picked it up from the floor and leaned it upright against the bloody chaise longue. The door didn't even make much of a noise when he opened it to leave, shut it behind him.

"Come to Birmingham," Alfie said to himself, letting his eyes drift shut. "Be damned for breathing. Go to The Midlands ... and find a way to damn yourself even further, is that it?  _ Ahhrrnn _ . Eradicate your incurable fucking sadness, yeah." His sore, strained body slumped into the mattress, too worn from the drive and the day's events and the unexpected fucking it had taken to sustain awakeness any longer, and Alfie sighed, letting himself go under, letting go of the thought that had been circulating in his head for days. Weeks.

_ Big fucks small.  _

He'd come back to that, when the time was right.

  



End file.
